


A Reason for Tomorrow

by iammisscullen



Category: One Direction
Genre: AU, Fluff but not so much, M/M, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammisscullen/pseuds/iammisscullen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn was trying to delete the past, till a beautiful stranger barged in his door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Reason for Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So this was inspired the morning I wanted to paint my wall. LOL!

_Open the door of thy heart,_

_And open thy chamber door,_

_And my kisses shall teach thy lips_

_The love that shall fade no more_

 

**-Bayard Taylor** , _Bedouin Song_

_**_

If you look at it, you’ll never guess that Zayn’s wall was once white. Splashes of colours were everywhere and it was not all enamel paint because some were latex and spray paints. Highly depended on whatever floated Zayn’s mood as he painted. Usually, the graffiti were made at 2 in the morning since Zayn’s shift at _Lion and Cock Tavern_ ends at 12 midnight. Yeah, he was some sort of modern Cinderella, but the advantage was that he won’t go back to his pauper clothes because he was already wearing them.

As Zayn looked at his diabolic –as his Mum, Trisha, had described− wall, he saw everything he had put on it. The Batman silhouette that he’d spray painted last Halloween in amendment to himself for not dressing up and joining the festivity. He vowed to never miss Halloween celebrations because it was one of the things that reminded him of home and by far it was the closest thing he’ll have to attending a party. And he needed a little boost on his social life.

At the left centre was the shittiest joke he had ever inked on the wall. It read: _Congratulations on your first boner! I bet it was hard._ He still grin like an idiot when he sees it because first, it was funny; and second, he wrote it when he got his job at _Lion and Cock Tavern_ almost a year ago. He was over the clouds to have a job at that time to be honest.

There was also an animated character of Alec, the guy he dated for six months and he’s still a good mate of, by the corner. There was also a weird doodle of shapes and figures at the bottom part, it was from that time he was pissed as hell and found a strayed Sharpie on the floor. The rest of that story was history. He can still remember why he got drunk that night with Ant (one of his best mate from Bradford who visited him). Why? It was the time Pete broke up with him.

Zayn did think it was _forever_ with Pete, they were so similar that it was hard to tell which dreams were his and which were Pete’s. They never fought and Zayn should have taken that as a hint that they must be doing something wrong because that was not normal. But he chose to remain blind. So when the first – and last – argument happened, all hell broke loose. It was stupid, as Zayn looked back now because it was a simple conflict: Zayn dying his quiff –he had one then− blonde which Pete didn’t like. And that’s how the battle started, both not running out of ammunition slash things they don’t like about the other.

At the end of the battle, both went away separately, marred. And every time he thought of him and Pete, Zayn can still feel the weight of it, like a person who went through surgery and his scar itches when it rains. That’s what goes to Zayn’s mind and his eyes would wander to that heart – near Bob Marley’s cartoon-like image – with Pete’s name on it. It was a small drawing on Zayn’s massive wall, it was even drowned down by the other stuff he had painted, but nothing could blur it from his sight. It was as if that’s the only thing he would see, that’s how he looked at Pete before, all zoomed in. And maybe that’s how everything in him crumbled down into nothing, he focused on one person too much that when Pete left, something inside Zayn died.

As much as Zayn loved all the memories that the wall held, there were too much heartache that he couldn’t bear to look at anymore without breaking his heart a little. And it wasn’t just the wall but the flat itself. He had made too many memories that he kept living on them. It wasn’t right.

He needed to move forward so he wanted a fresh start, a new beginning somewhere. Not here in this flat where memories were carved in his walls, where the monsters under his bed and the skeletons inside his closet were haunting him to no ends. And somehow along the way he liked spending time with them.

It wasn’t right.

Today was the day he’d paint the wall back to its pristine form before he moved there, two years ago. He can’t leave it like that since he doesn’t want to pass a piece –tattered piece− of himself to the next boarder and mostly because his old cranky landlady, Sophia, would kill him if he left the wall looking as it was. Sophia didn’t have what Zayn would call _eyes of an artist_. Might as well fix it while he can. Even if it was the only thing he can repair for now instead of his messed up life.

Zayn left the door open so not to suffocate on the paint fumes. He got his white paint on the floor on top of old and crumbled newspaper that he had laid out to protect the new linoleum floor from paint splashes or droppings. He was about to lay his roller with paint on the wall when someone said _Hello_. The voice came from the door that was ajar.

Someone should have warned Zayn before he looked at the direction of where the _Hello_ came from. Zayn would have worn his Ray Bans to shield his eyes from the sparkling smile of the boy outside his door. It wasn’t just the smile that glowed but the boy himself as his curls form like little halos on his head. He looked seraphic. And yes, someone should have given Zayn a heads up that angels co-exist with humans in London nowadays.

‘I’m sorry to startle you,’ he said, voice raspy and words all spoken in slow motion as if they were being dragged out of his lips.

What a weird creature was the boy outside Zayn’s doorstep. The stranger looked so contrary to his ripped, black skinny jeans and The Smith’s tee. He didn’t look ugly on those clothes, he fitted them actually because he was those ever-so-fortunate of a person, who was blessed to make every piece of clothing work. For all Zayn knew, _Hello_ -angelic-boy would have been wearing black garbage bag and he’d still be runway worthy.

Curly boy was painstakingly beautiful that Zayn was embarrassed the lad had witnessed him at such a state: dirty –wasn’t that how most people see his art? – looking wall and a broken boy, who looked like he had not slept for a week. Zayn felt naked with all his walls down like this, he felt vulnerable, he felt weak. And he doesn’t want that. Nobody does.

‘Can I come it?’ the stranger asked and stepped inside Zayn’s flat before any approval was said. He didn’t look at Zayn. He stared at the wall that recorded Zayn’s _history_. It was uncomfortable to Zayn as if the boy was reading his autobiography. And Zayn never planned on publishing one. That was just vain or weird. ‘Cool.’ He whistled in awe and appreciation. ‘Did you do all of this?’ He turned to Zayn, who had a paint roller at hand and was seemingly frozen in his place.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn answered, looking away. This stranger had seen so much of Zayn already and he can’t let him see more. He was scared that the boy would see more than he should because whatever the stranger see Zayn could never take it back. And Zayn’s tired of giving because there was nothing more to give.

‘Do you need help?’ the stranger asked, staring at the wall this time. ‘I’m actually an expert to this. Would you like to see my résumé?’ He turned to Zayn again and gave the tan boy a wink and a smile.

It was a joke, Zayn knew, yet he couldn’t find what was left of his sense of humor. So he just stared for a few seconds and settled for a small smile.

‘I’m Harry by the way,’ he said, turning his whole body to Zayn so they would be facing each other. ‘I’m your new neighbour next door. I transferred yesterday afternoon,’ he explained, jerking his hand at the door across the hallway. An awkward minute passed between them and Harry began rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. ‘I’ll just go and get my working clothes first, okay?’ He smiled.

And how can Zayn say _No_ to that smile?

‘Okay,’ Zayn answered.

Harry was out the door and stepped in into his flat across Zayn’s. When Harry was away, Zayn contemplated on how he had only spoken two words at their 9 minutes time-spent-together. He wasn’t good at small talks but he didn’t expect himself to be this bad. Maybe he should read Mr. Webster just so he can have words to reply to Harry since the lad seemed to be the type who talks a lot. It would be pitiful to Zayn if Harry wouldn’t put that gorgeous mouth of his to work. Yes, it would be _such_ a shame.

The boy came back wearing a white shirt with its sleeve cut off. It was snugly and almost transparent – that or Zayn had developed X-ray eyes that he can almost make out Harry’s nipples. Harry was wearing the same jeans. There was some sort of headband wrapped around Harry’s crown. It was actually a makeshift band out of a red _sarong_ that tucked Harry’s curls away from his face.

‘Do you have extra rollers?’ Harry asked, eyeing the roller in Zayn’s hand. Zayn does actually. He had bought two. He honestly wanted to try using both at the same time but didn’t because it seemed like a ridiculous idea. Well, it wasn’t that bad of an idea when he was at Tesco buying rollers, paint tinner, and paint.

‘Yeah.’ Another one word answer. Zayn regretted not checking Webster or maybe swallowing one wouldn’t be such a bad idea if it’ll help him. As he mutely scolded himself, he got the extra roller from the cabinet where he kept all his art supplies. He handed the extra roller to Harry with a, ‘Here.’ Fourth word and Zayn really believed he’d been cursed. It could be Mombi’s (from _Dorothy Must Die_ ) one-word-at-a-time spell.

When Harry got his paint roller, he immediately dipped it into that basin of white paint where Zayn had mixed the enamel paint and the paint tinner. The tip of his roller was almost touching the wall but he drew it back and looked at Zayn, who was frozen in place again as he quietly observed Harry. Zayn didn’t feel like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t when Harry found him staring. There was no judgment in those green eyes that turned to Zayn. But the tan boy did find a glint of sympathy in them.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Harry asked sadly, putting his roller further away from the wall. He looked back on the drawings and his eyes soften. ‘I know I’m in no place to say this, but… it’d be such a waste.’ He paused. ‘It’s brilliant.’ He smiled sympathetically but there was more sadness to it. It looked wrong on Harry’s face, Zayn noted. Zayn preferred that Harry with a megawatt smile.

Zayn followed the boy’s gaze and he was, yet again, trapped by the stories that the wall held. Tales that only him will know, images that only him will understand no matter how much one looked. Yes, it’d be such a waste. But why wear clothes that wouldn’t fit you anymore, right? He remembered why he was dong this…

To move on.

To move forward.

To become someone better.

‘I’m sure,’ he assured and gave Harry a weak smile of encouragement. It took him courage to say those both: to break the hold of the past; and to cease the one-word-at-a-time curse –that must have really befallen upon him.

Harry nodded in understanding and did what he ought to do a few minutes ago. Zayn copied him.

‘So, what’s your name?’ Harry asked, rolling paint on Bob Marley’s face.

‘Zayn.’ He forgot that he hasn’t introduced himself.

‘Zayn,’ Harry muttered, testing the name in his mouth. His name sounded amazing in Harry’s voice, Zayn would have told you. There was this reverie as he said Zayn’s name. ‘It suits you.’ He smiled and Zayn’s heart skipped a beat.

And in line with Zayn’s assumption, Harry was indeed a chatty chap. He told Zayn that: he was from Chesire; his Mum is Anne; has a sister named Gemma; a step-dad who’s called Robin; his real father though is Des; he goes to L’atelier des Chefs in Wigmore to become a chef; he had a pet hamster that he named Hamster; he loved tacos; has a collection of scented candles (that Zayn found amusing); and he dreams of opening up a restaurant in Granary Square in King’s Cross. As Harry talked about his life, Zayn listened carefully because that was what he does best. Zayn was a good listener.

‘What about you Zayn?’ Harry asked.

Zayn stopped mid-painting. He doesn’t have much to share. He doesn’t want to share. Isn’t he painting his wall right now because he wanted his past life deleted? If so, there was nothing to share. He was empty.

Harry must have noticed his discomfort with the subject so instead the boy asked, ‘What new art are you going to put on your wall?’

Zayn wanted to answer _None_. That it wasn’t going to be his wall anymore. That he was going to move away because painting the wall and annihilating memories wasn’t enough for him to progress. He doesn’t say anything though. He sounded like a coward, someone who was giving up on a jigsaw puzzle because he can’t put it together at his first try. The pitiful thing about it was that he didn’t try his best. And he knew he should have because it was worth it but then, he chickened out.

‘I’m interested on what you’re going to put next,’ Harry said, voice oozing with excitement. And Zayn was taken aback because nobody had been interested on his plans before. It was always Pete who’ll make a decision for both of them and Zayn goes with it because he _thought_ he loved it too. ‘This is like starting over, right? Creating something new. It’s like discovering a new recipe.’ He smiled.

It wasn’t starting over, Zayn knew. His and his wall’s story was more of the running away scenario. And he can’t tell Harry that either. He wasn’t brave enough to tell Harry that.

**

Harry made them tuna sandwiches, eating it as they sat, sprawled, on the floor near to the painted wall on Zayn’s small living room. They were facing the white wall –the fruit of their labor. That was just the first coating and they’re having a break. There was going to be a second coating to make sure none of the old colours resurfaced. They were just waiting for it to dry off so they could apply the second one to even the paint.

‘Let’s play a game,’ Harry suggested, munching down a sandwich in one go. It must have been one of the miracles of Harry’s mouth, Zayn thought. ‘Let’s play _Fuck, Marry, Kill_.’ He grinned and Zayn can’t help but smile a little at Harry’s appearance. They were tiny drizzles of paint on Harry’s face and almost every exposed skin. Harry’s hands were also white as if he has white hand gloves with holes.

‘You start,’ Zayn said. He had warmed up to Harry a bit and doesn’t feel nervous (not so much anymore like he wanted to kick Harry out of his flat because he doesn’t want to see another human being) at talking to the boy.

‘Fuck, Marry, Kill: Ashley Greene; Kristen Stewart; Nikki Reed.’

Zayn wanted to laugh because it was fucking funny that Harry was offering him women. If only Harry knew that Zayn preferred dicks over cunts. But he can’t tell Harry that either so Zayn kept quiet. ‘Fuck Ashley,’ he said like it was a Math problem that needed to be analyzed carefully. ‘Marry Nikki.’ He couldn’t look at Harry. He was nervous again, sharing a piece of information to a stranger. Not much of an information but still. ‘And kill Kristen.’

‘Kill Kristen?’ Harry said incredulously. ‘What do you have against Stewart?’

Zayn thought for a-many-second. He always does, especially if he was nervous. It was a part of him that Pete disliked too, saying that he was too slow. He wasn’t, he just takes his time because he doesn’t want to regret. But maybe he also overthinks at times. ‘She’s too Bella even when she was Snow White,’ Zayn explained and so far the longest sentence he had ever said to Harry.

Harry considered that and nodded in agreement. And Zayn felt like a piece of him got transferred to Harry. So much for not giving. But then it doesn’t feel like losing something, it actually felt the other way around. He felt like he had built something, a bridge that could get him to the strange boy with pale skin and clumsy, long legs.

‘True.’ Harry ate another sandwich. ‘Your turn.’

Zayn thought of the three women he could make Harry choose from with: Sarah Attar, Park Geun-hye, and Malala Yousafzai. Zayn’s not even sure if Harry knew those women.

‘Okay,’ Zayn said, settling for a new batch – women that Harry must have heard of. He doesn’t want to belittle Harry’s knowledge but Zayn was an old soul to be suggesting women that the majority of the world doesn’t know. Not that those women were less than the rest but they were just simply undiscovered jewels. ‘Jennifer Lawrence… Emma Watson… Shailene Woodley.’

Harry laughed, it was musical in Zayn’s ears. He had not heard anyone laugh so heartily, eyes crinkling and head thrown back. It was so bright. It was too far from what Zayn had used to see. It was refreshing, like rain after a long drought of summer.

‘KStew could have belonged here,’ he pointed out, smiling. ‘Big names.’ He winked at Zayn and the tan boy forgot how to breathe for a second. ‘This is tough.’ He ran a hand through his hair, despite the headband.

Zayn found it amusing that Harry was flustered over a silly little game. A silly game yet Harry’s treating it like the peace among the nations rest on his decision who to marry, fuck, and kill.

He let out a long, hard sigh. ‘Okay. I got it,’ Harry said, looking troubled for the first time. ‘Kill Shailene.’ He had a pained expression on his face and Zayn couldn’t help but imagine the invisible tears brimming on Harry’s eyes. ‘I’d marry Jen and fuck Emma,’ he said smugly, all feelings of remorse for killing Shailene…deleted.

Zayn didn’t react immediately. He took his time to think of his response. He always does, remember? ‘Emma eh?’ His heart seemed to sink at this. It just proved how straight Harry was.

‘Yeah.’ Harry was smirking, probably imagining inappropriate things about Hermoine Granger, probably. ‘Who wouldn’t wanna sleep with her anyway?’

Zayn wanted to say, _I do_ but kept quiet instead. There was no way he’d make that confession to Harry. He just wasn’t the type to be like, _Hey, do you know I’m gay and love sucking cock?_ with strangers. He had shown enough to Harry and that was sufficient. But in truth, he was scared that who he is won’t be enough for Harry. That who he is won’t be enough to make Harry stay. Nobody did stay.

Zayn just nodded because it seemed like a rhetoric question.

‘Next batch.’ Harry looked into nothing as he thinks. But it still got Zayn worried that maybe Harry was seeing the little touches in his living room. Maybe Harry was wondering why Zayn have a copy of Andy Warhol’s painting. Or why was there a circular aquarium, at the corner on top of a drawer, with no fish in them. ‘Theo James, Ansel Ergot, Miles Teller.’

When Zayn’s jaw dropped at what he heard –he wasn’t even sure if he heard Harry right – you can definitelycollect it on the floor. Disbelief would have been an understatement-of-an-adjective that you would use as description to Zayn’s expression. Did Harry just ask him to Fuck-Marry-Kill men?

Zayn couldn’t answer, not that he can’t. He just doesn’t know how or if he should. And he shouldn’t because he doesn’t share. But he cleared his throat twice and stared into his feet.

‘Kill Miles,’ he said hesitantly, waiting for something to hit him the forehead because he shouldn’t be saying this at all. He really shouldn’t. ‘Marry Ansel.’ He paused as he looked up to meet Harry’s gaze. He looked away quickly, couldn’t keep looking at Harry’s with his stomach churning. A good kind that made Zayn even more nervous. ‘Fuck Theo,’ he said it with reluctance and inhibition.

Harry smiled, there was no judgment in his eyes. ‘I’d fuck Theo too.’ He smiled again maliciously as if assessing the idea of shagging Theo James. And maybe he does, Zayn may never know. ‘Your turn.’

Zayn thought for a while. He doesn’t know whether to stick with Harry’s selection. But he does want to know Harry’s type that’s for sure.

‘Okay.’ Zayn rummaged his brain again. But not so much this time since he surmised that Harry loved the present-big-thing in Hollywood. ‘Here it goes.’ Another pause. ‘Josh Hutcherson, Liam Hemsworth, Sam Claflin.’

Harry’s face lit up like he was just offered pudding and ice cream for breakfast instead of a Caesar salad. ‘That’s easy.’ He smirked. ‘Kill Liam. I hate him.’ Zayn looked surprised but tucked the new info away inside his brain because he was a good listener with a great memory. ‘He was too carbon copy of his brother. But anyway. I’d marry Josh. And fuck Sam.’

Unlike Zayn, Harry wasn’t even embarrassed that he’d just said – out loud – that he’d fuck Sam.

‘He’s married though,’ Harry said it without any remorse, rather he sounded like a challenged Barney Stinson. And there was a glint of mischief in his eyes that Zayn’s brain told him that he should run. But Zayn couldn’t because human’s love danger and it’s a plus that the devil doesn’t wear ugly capes and stupid horns, rather the devil dress up as the most beautiful angel you could have ever laid eyes on.

**

While waiting for the second coating to dry off, Zayn found himself helping Harry with the boy’s remaining boxes from the rental truck. They’ve carried the boxes and stuff to Harry’s flat and after two trips down and up the stairs, Zayn was knackered. He had never gotten himself used to heavy lifting and Harry has the most ridiculous décor: a big porcelain jar that’s like two feet tall and weighs like marbles, a posh English chair that was PURPLE(!) in color (Harry said it was from his great-grandmother), an old grandfather clock that doesn’t work anymore but Harry had kept for _sentimental_ value, and other stuff that could have belonged to antique shops. But if Zayn was being honest, Harry’s flat did look like an antique shop with all the old décor and furniture. But it was very homey. And Harry didn’t seem to mind letting Zayn see his ugly furniture, his past, his memories.

But despite it all, Zayn still found Harry perfect. And somehow, Harry had never judged Zayn’s flaw, his scars. And that was what Zayn needed in his life, someone who would see his imperfections yet would still accept him, would look at him like he’s the most perfect creature in the world.

They were sweating and panting, Zayn’s legs gave in as he lay down on his newspaper-carpeted floor. Harry followed suit.

‘That was exhausting,’ Harry stated in between pants. But despite the negativity of his statement, the huge smile spread on his lips contradicted it. His face was flushed from exhaustion and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, his hair was spread on the floor –headband no longer in place. Harry looked like he was just fucked and Zayn wanted to know if that flush of red on the boy’s face and neck trailed down lower.

Zayn’s own thoughts surprised him. How long has it been since he had such thoughts? He stared at the wall –now white and remarkable. It’s been so long that he was broken and had never lived like the way he used to before Pete. All he could think before was pain and being hurt. All that had accompanied him were the monsters of his past and they don’t carry bright ideas.

‘Zayn,’ Harry murmured so quietly that Zayn almost missed it. But Zayn’s a good listener. He heard it.

His head snapped towards the lying boy next to him. Zayn stared, waiting for Harry to continue but the lad’s breathing was even, he was asleep.

‘Zayn,’ Harry said again, not even above whisper, yet Zayn heard again, loud and clear.

His heart ached that he almost sobbed. When was the last time he felt needed? When was the last time he felt loved? It had been a long time. He was broken. He had been broken for a long time. Yet, he didn’t feel he’d been broken at that moment, when Harry was beside him, murmuring his name in his sleep, Zayn felt whole. Complete.

He didn’t think that the day would come for someone to whisper his name in their sleep. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard in his life. It was like someone shot him with narcotics to live again and he felt it in his veins, it ran through his bloodstreams, awakening every cell in his body. It burned, forest fire like, and Zayn knew that he’d never be the same again.

He wasn’t quipped for his heart to swell with so much joy that it hurt, like it would combust. Could a broken heart beat again? Zayn’s heart just did.

_One word_ , that was all it took for Zayn to change his mind, for him to stay. Maybe he doesn’t need to leave; to become someone new, someone better. Maybe what he really needed was to find a new reason for tomorrow, for the future. And as he looked back at Harry, smiling contentedly in his sleep, Zayn knew he was meant to stay. He had to stay. He needed to hear more of Harry’s childhood stories and maybe he could share his too. Who knows, their skeletons in the closet and the monsters under their beds might play with each other instead of haunting them both.

When Harry snuggled closer to Zayn’s warm body –the room getting darker by the minute, indicating that night time was near− Zayn was sure that Andrew Matthew was right, if you want to begin again, you should start from where you are standing. But sometimes, Zayn realized, you may need someone’s help you stand and start again.

As Zayn closed his eyes, feeling complete after being broken for a long time, he felt at peace. He had something fun to do tomorrow because when you add Harry to the equation, things will never be mundane. Behind his eyelids, Zayn can almost imagine what new things he would put on his new wall, his new life. Another story to tell, this time with a curly haired boy with emerald eyes to help him tell the tale.

 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me in [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hopelessly-inzayn) and also in [Twitter](https://twitter.com/gwynxzcullen). P.S. I don't bite. xoxo


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